The anus of the pond finds the mouth of the blotted sky.
                  Whoever sees this sees
an unfathered man. Whoever this is is who you can’t ask
        for more.
But the idea of who is not a right here. The idea of personhood is a sapped
           equipage in memory.
                             In junior high school, the house of bullets
and today called The Museum of Love. How well do you remember, my run-down
                                                                                                 baby?
Here is the braillist mirror to raise the flesh of taboo, here is the last
          victim—look again at its unsanitized skin—who is not afraid to separate,
               the roseate ears to be cut off for a bottle of beer, the music of
replacement whose sound a lullaby
                        miscomposed by a man who has written an unabridged history
of hunger and is now disputing if you ever offered anything in the past,
                                                                          here’s the lunch plate
          emptied by a punch that didn’t go perfectly through the stomach.
Reunion, that most striking about fractionation is the unreality
of the beginning
                        world, or when you wanted and succeeded to touch the tendon
attached to the socket of my hips the way Jacob wrestled with God who knew
           how to give a chance of mercy
                                                                                 by showing how
daybreak wouldn’t overpower man. At least the story could be told this way.
We’re we really there together? you ask this by meaning how existence is
                                                                               apart, now, from
us—the trademark of decay, the trademark of collapse, the trademark of hope.

The glass of skulls has no place in this city park
                                      except if it is to frighten, to warn the public
               of what bad life two men who made love in a temple would preserve.
But we don’t like preserving things, forcing things to happen again
                                  in a theater which the script of war couldn’t cross out.
What we like is the ability of making the discreet destroyed. And for this
           no memoir is unaccountable. No past can speak without unspeaking.
The real sun, a spotlight, a red laser dot
                      of heaven’s gun coerces to emit the bluer
version of your eyes, but you don’t have to cry, there’s no point in imitating
                                    the infantile cry girthed by the thickness of your arms.
From here, the pigeons seem tired and ready to be
                              air-dropped anytime by the message of flying.
From here, the window of time is closed.
                                                   From here, the alleyway, the return ticket,
        and the obedience of the body against its own resilience.
Outmanned is the last form of the body if the horror of love, never in any law,
                                         is a gift. Which is just
the clearest portioned out of me asking Are we really here together
                                                                to put the bullets back their gun?